


What You Look For

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e10 Number Crunch, Episode: s01e11 Super, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 22:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14145771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: The morning after his shooting, Harold drives John from the morgue to the apartment block.





	What You Look For

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Harold's line in 1x10: "Careful what you look for, Mr. Reese, or you might find it."

They leave the coroner's office around seven thirty, with time left before the arrival of the day shift. John shakes Farouk's hand when they go. He has some idea how much skill the man has, to save his life so fast, with improvised equipment.

 

Harold has brought him some new clothes - he didn't let the surgeon burn the bloody ones, leaving no evidence behind. They're hidden at the library for now, to be disposed of later, when Mark doesn't have people out looking so hard.

 

John could wheel the chair himself but Harold insists on pushing him out of the morgue using the same route they came in. John takes one look at the dark circles under Harold's eyes and lets him have his wish.

 

Finch is better at this than most who have trained for it. John has never had a smoother extraction, planned or otherwise. It's not quite daylight in the parking lot yet, giving them some cover as Harold wheels him toward a van with a ramp. John looks up at the dawn with a vague sense of relief - he was almost convinced he wouldn't see another one, and might have been okay with that.

 

Chair locked in place, ramp folded away, Harold pauses with the rear door in his hand and says, awkwardly, "Sorry." Then he closes John into the dark.

 

He's back again momentarily, climbing into the driver's side and turning his whole body around in the seat to look in the back, as though he can't bear to leave John alone for more than a few seconds.

 

John meets his worried gaze mildly. "Where to, now?" He's hoping for the library.

 

But Finch turns to face forward and answers, "Someplace safe."

 

He reverses out of the spot and joins the early morning traffic, slow and steady.

 

John's mind is buzzing with questions. He's just been confronted with tangible proof of his worth to Finch. A whole stash of bills, upended clumsily onto a morgue table. How much money? He can't ask that. Pocket change to Harold, certainly. A few months ago, John could have died on the street for lack of a dollar.

 

"How did you get hold of so much cash on short notice, out of hours?" He tries instead, because he was too out of it to wonder where that came from, last night.

 

Harold huffs. "I didn't. I've been keeping it in the library for exactly this type of emergency."

 

John breathes in deep, stopping as his new stitches pull. "Good job we've not been burgled."

 

Harold's eyebrows twitch in the mirror. "You have your Plan B, I have mine." He points out reasonably, referring to John's grab bag of guns, tucked away inside the shelves. Turning John's flimsy joke back on him.

 

Yesterday, he'd been unable to tell when Finch was joking. He wants to understand Harold better. Not just drink preferences. Deeper things. Before Mark showed up, it had seemed like maybe Finch was opening a door.

 

That book. The Ghost in the Machine. Why would Finch set it out for him to find? It's possible he'd been reminiscing and absentmindedly left it balanced on its side atop the other books, but unlikely. Harold Finch doesn't just leave pieces of his past lying around by accident.

 

Smiling young Harold, with another man at his side. On the back of the picture, unfamiliar handwriting. _In the beginning... N.I._

 

The words of a sentimental friend...or a lover?

 

He shouldn't ask, but seven hours ago he almost died, and if Finch is trying to tell him something, John wants to know about it, in case he doesn't get another chance.

 

"Nathan Ingram...was he your Jessica?" John grimaces at his heavy-handed phrasing of a delicate question, the equivalence it implies, but pushes on regardless. "The person you lost? The reason you're working the numbers? Why you're protecting me now?"

 

He expects Harold to shut him down. Tries to judge whether Harold's grip has tightened on the wheel.

 

"I'm protecting you because you need some help," Harold says. "Would you rather I didn't?"

 

John shakes his head. "I'm not worth you taking on the CIA."

 

"I beg to differ."

 

"Finch, you're a _civilian_."

 

"I'm also a dead man."

 

"You will be, if they catch you." The idea of Mark getting anywhere near Harold makes John sick to his stomach, and his stomach currently has a hole in it.

 

He realizes how easily Harold has managed to redirect the conversation away from Nathan. He swallows down his frustration and tries again.

 

"There's a statue of him in the lobby of IFT...you had that made."

 

Finch sighs. "Yes. I did." The slightest quaver in his voice this time.

 

John waits, hoping Harold will elaborate. Of course Harold doesn't fall for his basic interrogation technique, so John prompts: "If you ever want to talk about him... "

 

A clipped, formal response. "Thank you, Mr. Reese, I'll bear that in mind."

 

Conversation closed. They drive in silence. John's eyes stop boring into the back of Finch's head. He faces forward instead, at the opposite wall of the vehicle, fidgeting in the chair. He wishes there were tinted windows, so he could at least get an idea of where they're headed.

 

The adrenaline ought to have worn off by now, but John feels like it hasn't. He wonders where Snow is. He wants to make sure Carter's okay. She only ran his prints in the first place because he was numb enough to pick a fight on the subway, knowing the police would be interested in him. He'd proven himself too good at hiding; he'd just wanted to be done. He hadn't thought he'd be risking a good cop's career in the process. Maybe the only truly good cop in this city.

 

But Finch had scooped him up, and here they still are. A second chance.

 

_It's not over, John. I'm close._

 

John fiddles with the many straps preventing his right leg from bending. Harold did them up, helped John dress when he couldn't balance on his own.

 

Harold the ghost, and his Machine. If anyone could outsmart the CIA...if anyone could breach the space-time continuum..."You could be the one."

 

Harold, in a small voice: "John?"

 

John blinks. He's more tired than he thought. "To build a time machine." He explains, forcing a laugh, but that's not all he means.

 

A loaded pause. "I realize that you're on a number of painkillers at present, but I would appreciate it, if they made you less...candid." Harold retorts, sounding just a tiny bit flustered. A few minutes later he pulls the handbrake. "We're here."

 

"To do what?"

 

Harold twists in his seat again. "You're renting a new apartment."

 

He gets out, closes the door, comes around to open the back. Another parking lot, brighter daylight. Once John's down the ramp and on the ground, Harold hands him a wallet with his new ID. "Your name is John Hayes. You had a motorcycle accident. Find the Super, get settled in."

 

John cradles the leather in his palms. It's warm from the time spent in Harold's pants pocket, pressed against his thigh. "Thanks."

 

Harold's hand settles on his shoulder. He bends at the waist, then quickly straightens. As though his instinct is to kiss John's forehead, before thinking better of it. "Take care. I'll see you up there."


End file.
